Lack Of Heart
by Psychotic.Scam.Loves.Slash
Summary: Sam's aftermath of Heart. More inside, and be warned for breaking hearts.


**heartbreak, baby, is half the fun. you bring the bullets, i'll bring the gun.  
**This takes place directly after the episode ends, except before the gunshot. It's a take on Sam's emotions, and just a random excuse to try and break him more than he already is. I was very fustrated and tempted not to finish it, but I came through. So, the weather today could be considered dark, possible bloodplay, wincest most definately, slash, and angst, with a slight chance of self-blame.  
Because breaking these boys is the damn near reason why we write stories.  
I don't own these boys.

---

He had taken the gun from his brother's hand. He had accepted to do this. For her. For himself. He walked slowly; delaying the moment he wished didn't have to happen. His footsteps echoed like a bell in his mind, bouncing of the walls of his skull and increasing in volume. He paused in step, took a breath to put himself in her situation. In fact, he _was_ in her situation. Good, but one side was dark, deadly. _Evil._ He recalls what he said to Dean earlier. _"You won't shoot me but you'll blow her away?!"_ He hated having only one side to look at, never really having the access to see from Dean's. He had always set up such great barriers to keep everyone but himself out. He gathered his courage, quelled his shaking hands, and turned the corner. Everything seemed to slow.

Madison seemed calmer, but her eyes were still alternating between distraught and relief. For the third time, Sam wanted to turn his back and forget all this. Forget her. Forget Chicago. Forget they even heard there was a werewolf in town. All that was stopping him were her eyes. The way they pleaded silently, soothing him in a way. And damn her, they were working.

"Sammy," She breathes, and Sam can't do it. He let his shoulders release from the tension, his head turning so she wouldn't have to see his tear streaked and red blotched face.

"I can't...I can't..." He mutters, his voice catching in a sob. He hears one in comparison.

"Sammy, you have to," She whispered, moving toward him. Her hands were like gentle cloth, smoothing over his skin like silk in a calming gesture, encouraging him as her hands wrapped around the piece in his hand. Sam couldn't hide the flinch.

"No, no, no, no," His voice repeated in a blurred mantra, trying to pull away, but she holds steady. Through her and his own tears, he could see the pain there. Pain _he_ was causing her.

"Sammy," He wished she'd stop saying _Sammy_. He's not a 12-year old kid anymore. "Please... You tried. It's okay to give up," Her voice is like cotton and it's smothering him. He shakes his head, but despite that, he finds himself lifting his arm holding the gun, raising it point-blank to her chest. A smile ripples across Madison's face like she's won the fucking lottery. He can't see well now, his eyes are so full of big, fat and hot tears that just keep rolling down his cheeks.

It's like Jessica, just worse.

He's actually doing the killing.

"I'm sorry," He chokes, dipping his head so his chin brushes against his shirt, before snapping it back up in fear she might turn. But she hasn't. She's still the same woman he fell head-over-heels for. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you," She smiles, and her hand is resting on his cheek again, gently running her thumb over his burning tears.

"Love him, Sammy." He wrinkled his brow, confused, and she smiles brokenly. "And let him love you back," Her hand is crawling down his bicep, palming his arm and sliding off like a hot breath, dropping to her side. Her mouth opens again, and Sam knows what she's going to say.

"I lo--" He couldn't stop his finger that twitched ever so tightly around the trigger.

He didn't want to hear the words that would haunt his dreams.

---

Even though the temperature in the car was more than enough to make him sweat, Sam's index finger was still cold, an icy bite that riveted in his blood stream through that one individual finger. The one that pulled the trigger. On his call. No matter if he enclosed his other hand around the finger, sharing warmth, trying to revive the heat, it didn't work. Yeah, for a moment, it'd be orbiting the heat, but the minute he'd let go, the cold reality would sink in again.

It still felt like her blood. It had spattered unintentionally, catching his trigger finger somehow, drenching it with warm, thick blood. The warmth, however, didn't last. It had seemed to freeze over the next minute, sending a discomforting chill through his veins and keeping a strong hold on his emotions.

It was too much.

He killed her. He'd pulled it without flinching, watched as the silver round pierced through her chest, watched the blood that would stain forever bloom, spatter, land; ridding all good and invading with a dark shadow that wouldn't ever go away no matter how many washes.

He doesn't know he's staring so intently at his hands until Dean nudges him.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam twitches his lip. He's been staring at his hands--more specifically, his finger--since they left Madison's. _Do I look okay? Cause I'm bloody well not! I just killed someone who I had just had made love with, and you're asking if I'm okay? I'm fucking hunky dory, Dean!_ He wanted to scream, but right now, he wasn't even gunna bet that his voice would die before he even got a breath out. Instead, he nodded, lying under his perfection.

Truth was, he just wanted to crawl into some isolated, protected part of his mind and wither away until he was dead and dust.

He didn't want to face up to the cold, sick reality again.

"Yeah?" Dean's voice was gruff; thick with sympathy that was very well-hidden, "Well, you don't look so okay." Sam rotated his vision to peer at Dean, the effort of moving his head too much at the moment. Dean's face was contorted into a gentle look, something he'd rarely seen on his older brother's face, and it was edged with genuine concern and worry. Sam wrinkled his nose slightly, recalling what Madison had said.

_Love him. Let him love you back._ He couldn't.

Swallowing past a phlegm lump in his throat, he sighed heavily, his lungs hitching.

"I'm fine, Dean," He added the 'I'm irritated and bitchy' tone just to convince him.

He should've considered acting as a career.

---

The water pressure sucked, but the temperature sure as hell made up for it. It burned his skin a light pink, and he relished in the feel of his nude body shivering from the contact of hot water on his chilled flesh. It was a glorious burn. He leaned into the side of the tile wall, enjoying the feel of the water as it cascaded down his chest and shoulders, cradling in his navel, before continuing its descent downwards. He titled his head back so his neck was bare to the spray, and made a low mumbling noise at the gentle caresses of the water against his neck, ever so gracefully dancing lower until it came to the end of his neck, hiding in the sunken in hollow of his throat, coaxing the heat back to his limbs, recuperating temperature back to normal, instead of the cold numbness that riveted in result of guilt.

His finger was still so fucking cold.

No matter what, he couldn't get any heat into it. It had tinged a pale color, contrasting against his skin. He nudged the heat up a bit, the burn like a whip against his twitching skin, and still no warmth. He turned it to a point past unbearable, and he found himself sitting in attempt to dull the fiery lash of water. It felt like acid, peeling at his knees and the steam emitting suffocated him, made him light-headed. He felt like he was sweating, and he panted through the humidity.

For the first time since Jessica, he wanted to die.

This was his fault. He knew that.

His fingers are pruned, and he swallowed dry. His skin was beginning to remind him of Rudolph's nose, and the steam was just adding onto stress. He makes a choked noise, close to a wail, as he fights back threatening sobs. He's cried once today. He didn't want Dean to think he was weak.

As if Dean had picked up on some freaky vibe, he knocked on the door, startling Sam bad enough to slip and slide from where he sat in the tub. He's on his back, staring at the ceiling, water spilling past his lips. He gurgles, before pulling himself up now. The water had grown cold.

No wonder he'd been shivering.

"You alright in there?" He hears Dean ask, but doesn't have the stomach to answer. He's afraid if he opens it, he'll loose his control and just crumble. In attempt to take his mind of it, he focuses on the blur of a soaked, ringlet of his bang, plastered to his forehead. He focuses so long; it feels like he's not even there.

He barely registers the sound of the door creaking open, footsteps heavy with urgency, the shower curtain of the shitty, rundown hotel being thrown open, Dean saying _something_. Everything seems to be unrealistic, like a pastel painting, moving slowly and drawling out his pain and misery.

It's too much.

Wrenching, broken sobs rip through him, racking his ribcage in a violent shudder and making him heave, his shoulders trembling as he just let's go. Everything he'd worked so hard in building up crashes down.

Warm hands unfreeze his cold flesh, sinking down deep to muscle and making his heart spark and pace rapid beats. It takes him a moment to recognize the rough calluses pressing against his skin, years of gunmanship changing smooth skin to such. It's a soothing, tender touch, nothing like Madison's satin touch, and it's so familiar but so distance, until Dean's voice echoes like a roar in his ears.

"Sam!" It's a plea; a genuine cry of worry. "Sammy," It softens, and Sam realizes he's no longer under the assault of chilled water. Sobbing still, he brings his hands up for inspection, and he still can't feel his index finger.

A hand wraps around his own massive ones, and Dean's speaking again.

"Oh, god, Sam, you're shivering," He moves, and Sam's covered with a blanket draping his shoulders. "Fuck, what are you? Stupid, college-boy?" Dean's voice is trembling with something so distinct but so foreign for him.

Fear. Sorrow. Pain. Unshed tears.

_Love him._

"Why'd you do that, Sammy?" He wishes they'd all just stop with _Sammy_. He sniffs, his teeth beginning to vibrate in his jaw. He can't look at Dean. Doesn't want to see the disappointment. The shame in those usually morale, green hued eyes. But he soon has no choice when Dean angles his chin to face him. He's surprised to see Dean's eyes a reddened. "Why'd you do that, Sammy?" Sam must've been under a cold endurance for awhile if his threshold is waning. He swallows hard.

_Let him love you back._

He reassures himself the only reason he's about to tell Dean is to get her voice out of his head.

"He-her," His words shake and crack at the end, his voice unsteady. Dean's forehead wrinkles with confusion. Sam swallows, dry, hard, painfully, and tries again. "Her blood… I-it's there, Dean. It won't come off…" He sounds like a child who just lost his dog. And to back the fact he sounds like one, he raises his finger like it's been hurt, just as a wounded youth would.

He's pretty damn sure he just broke Dean's heart.

"It's right there… won't g'way…" He's crying again. "Ruined my finger. Can't feel it." He's just pieces now; incapable of being a finished puzzle again. Dean looks at him, eyebrows furrowed with sympathy, and his hand cups the back of Sam's neck, the other wrapping around his back, and he's in a sudden warm embrace, cooped up and blocked from harm and anything that would bring him down.

The sobs fire back up again.

"I couldn't save her, Dean. Couldn't save her," He sniffed, ignoring the fact he was using his big brother, the apple of John's eye, as a giant tissue paper. "Couldn't save Jess," It's a torn whisper. He feels like he's broken beyond repair. So broken, not even Dean could fix him. A hand strokes his soggy hair.

"Not your fault," Dean's voice is grooved with tears, thick with pain for his little brother. "You didn't want this. You didn't kill Jess,"

"Killed her," Dean jerks him. He hitches his breath, staring up at his brother's face, contorted into something Sam would never expect to see on a soldier of his title.

"You thought of all there was, Sammy. You know we can't save everyone. It comes with the job description." Dean paused, swallowed, than retried that. "It comes with our life. We're not super heroes, Sam." He kissed him than, his chapped lips catching roughly against Sam's and there's a burn from the dry peel of flesh, but it sends fire soaring through his body.

The finger is still numb.

"Dean," Sam whimpers, a choked sob ensuing. Dean seemed catatonic, contemplating something. He leans in again, this time Sam meets him halfway, and it's powerful. Stronger, more forced under stress and long and thick and their tongues dancing in a way Satan would find shame in.

Sam doesn't quite feel the hot, steaming liquid until they break apart with a bridge of saliva that breaks and hangs onto his lip, but his finger must've been dipped there for awhile. Dean's holding his wrist, avoiding the shallow incision he had made, blood welling to the oxygen of the sour smelling hotel room. His index finger is resting just where it's surfacing, a faint blip on a map.

He glanced up to Dean, confusion swirling in his mind. Dean must've seen it in his eyes too, because he nods towards his finger, and the cut.

"Blood to erase blood, little bro." That sounds more like the Dean Sam prefers, but it still confuses Sam for a moment. Than, he catches on. He watches his brother's face a moment, before prying his finger into the cut, his nail scraping against the tissue he feels inside and successfully expands the wound, the skin breaking under the width of Sam's index.

Dean's blood is warm and thick and cleansing. Sam watches as it wipes away any trace of Madison's once tainting blood, and whimpers with relief as he feels heat return to his finger. It's like an orgasm in that one digit, and it feels so damn good. He palms the cut, the blood spreading over his hands, and he pulls it away and rests it over Dean's heart, soaking his shirt with blood and moves his hands to cup his older brother's face.

_He_ kisses him this time, his self-confidence and his pride returning, his heart beating just a tad-bit quicker and the nausea that threatened his uneasy stomach before fading.

Madison's words leave his head, and he's so relieved, he fucking near cried. He breaks away and pulled Dean's arm up to his lips, mouth closed as he presses a gentle, worrying kiss the wound. Dean hisses from the slight pain but it's a good hiss. He darts out the muscles that works harder than his heart and laps at the coppery substance, storing the way it feels in the back of his throat for later.

Dean tastes so good, and he feels so warm and the blood is dribbling down his lip when he looks back at Dean. There's fascination in his eyes, understanding underlining as Dean captures his lips to taste his own blood.

Dean's blood is Sam's, as Sam's is Dean's.

Both from one heart together.

And at that moment, when Dean pushes him back and straddles him with muscles thighs and his hands are dipping lower to his exposed member, Sam had a lack of heart for anyone other than his brother, lover, but most of all heart.


End file.
